We went straight to Terminal one, where Richard knew every nook and cranny. He took a blanket from his bag and made himself comfortable on one of the long metal benches. I sat beside him, nervous and uncertain as I sensed the stares of the businessmen, families and backpackers around me. We were an eyesore. By now Richard was too drunk to hold a conversation. He gave me his Bible to read and dozed off.
Still scared and traumatized by the events of the past few days and the busy nature of the airport, I stayed where I was and spent some time just staring at my new friend and trying to work out what was going on in his mind. Richard was such a lovely person, lost in the grip of alcoholism, with so much agony locked up inside him. How could such a good soul, who had been rejected by everyone close to him, still believe in God? It was fascinating and disturbing at the same time.
As the minutes passed I remained petrified that someone would notice us. I did not want to break the law at any cost. We were trespassing in a restricted area. We were tramps. I picked up my bag and followed the signs to Terminal three.
My new rest area was more spacious and I felt I could be more discreet there. The Bible remained nestled in my hands but I wasn't reading a word. I was thinking about my cowardliness and the way I had betrayed a new friends' trust. There was something deeper that was bothering me, too. Richard wasn't my first encounter with an alcoholic and meeting him had dredged up some painful memories.
In March 2005 I was working as a health care assistant in the acute medical unit at a hospital in north London. One day, a middle-aged bloke with a strong northern accent was admitted to our ward. He had been found passed out on the street and brought to the hospital by the ambulance service. He was suffering from sirosis, an alcohol-related liver disease. He was verbally and physically abusive and spent much of his stay spitting at or fighting with staff. His only words were swear words. He turned the entire ward into a place of chaos and disorder. One night he was so out-of-control that he was sectioned for the next twenty-four hours. His name was Mark. He was divorced and he hadn't seen his now twelve-year-old son for a decade.
Mark's behavior stemmed from the fact that he was having withdrawal symptoms from alcohol and even the tranquilizers he'd been given were doing little to calm him down. Everyone else on the ward was terrified of him.
After two days, a doctor came to see him. This man looked through through Mark's medical notes and spoke to the nurse in charge of the ward. He asked her to double Mark's dose of drugs. I knew that would be enough to prompt some serious consequences. The man became a baby in his bed. He was more sedate, yet that came from being barely conscious. He was dribbling and incontinent. Three days later he was free from his pain and his addiction forever.
It was this memory that was haunting me as I thought about Richard's future. Medical negligence is a controversial and grey area. Had Mark really been such a liability, such a hopeless case that his survival was pointless? Did the staff at the hospital think he was a waste of taxpayers' money. Did they simply think he no longer belonged? He merely existed and his life at that time was a hideous existance. Was it then kinder to let him go? All these questions were making me sick.
The thing about alcohol is that it is legal and it is a multibillion dollar industry. It provides employment to people, from grape pickers and bar tenders to corporate managing directors and advertising firms. Mark's existence even gave me some extra overtime as I helped look after him in his special unit away from the other patients. How much should we judge those who become addicted to alcohol when there are others who make money from fuelling their addiction?
As for Richard, I never saw him again and I have no idea what happened to him. Later that night, feeling sad and broken, I went outside to get some fresh air. I hiked through the dark night and tried not to think about everything I was going through. On and on I walked in an attempt to tire myself out. I reached Kingston by early dawn, when I realized it was the third of April, my birthday. I had just spent half a century on earth.
